


Flatlined, Once More

by whitefang (radialarch)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, some kind of meta
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-04
Updated: 2012-04-04
Packaged: 2017-11-03 00:40:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/375140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/radialarch/pseuds/whitefang
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The first time Sherlock Holmes flatlines, the word hasn’t even been invented."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flatlined, Once More

**Author's Note:**

> For [aderyn](http://archiveofourown.org/users/aderyn), who encourages me far more than she should. (All the love!)

The first time Sherlock Holmes flatlines, the word hasn’t even been invented. The year is 1891, the location Meiringen, and he calmly pens a letter to a man so much more than his biographer (“ _believe me to be, my dear fellow, very sincerely yours_ ”) before standing up to look into a professor’s eyes.

He’s not afraid; this is his work’s end.

The two fall, and the water tries its hardest to erase their existence.

———

And then he’s a shadow at the edge of consciousness as the fog rolls over the moor. There are murders, and intrigues, and even a touch of romance, but he stands apart, a lone figure on a tor with the moon just behind.

The hound is a thing of myth – and so is he.

———

He walks in the faded footprints of Orpheus and scrambles over the dividing edge, having achieved the curse of a second life. Charon the ferryman watches him go and calculates the fee he must pay on his return.

After all, Sherlock Holmes is no immortal. Yet.

———

The second time is among the low hum of bees in Sussex Downs. It passes by, unnoticed.

———

The stage, the screen, fraying and dog-eared pages – they each bestow upon the detective a fragment of life. Though the circumstances may shift with every reincarnation, his essence is constant.

The price of living a thousand lives, however, is that one must also die a thousand deaths.

———

Once, he breathed out his last in John Watson’s arms. The tears burned on his brow, and he vowed, _never again_.

———

This is certainly not the last time, but Sherlock’s given up trying to keep a tally. All he knows is that a madman demands a fall, and he cannot refuse.

Moriarty goes out with a bang and a bullet; Sherlock gives himself up to the pull of gravity—

Flatlined, once more.

He wants to tell John who’s grieving on the pavement that it will be all right, that it’s happened before and that it’ll happen again; but no matter the time and no matter the circumstances, “always, yours”.

That he can’t is his biggest regret.

He stands a pale ghost beside his own grave and waits for his next chance.

———

221B Baker Street tugs at him with invisible ties of steel and dreams.

“Bastard,” whispers John.

“I’m sorry,” he offers.

———

They stop together this time.

“Is this how it always feels?”

It’s one of his better deaths.


End file.
